Overwatch: The Second Universe
by fontsajoke
Summary: Two universes can call themselves Overwatch: the one you know and one in which a mysterious entity took action in the museum. This follows the second universe as the mysterious entity known as the Night Wind emerges and the war that follows. Rated T for safety. Possible OCxTracer in later chapters. First fic, hope you give it a try!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

 **As I said in the description, this is my first real fic. I'd really appreciate feedback on this as I'd like to make this as good a story as possible. Enjoy!**

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Inside the Overwatch Museum, a battle was taking place. Unfortunately for our heroes, they were outmatched. No matter how battle-tested a duo may be, two highly trained mercenaries will always win out over a chronically ill Brit and an out-of-shape ape. However, the cocky pilot and genius gorilla had a not-quite-impartial observer, hiding in the shadows of the nearby towers. One who had cast a lot in favor of the fighters formerly known as Overwatch members, one who had the ability to make a difference. Two universes exist from this point onward; one that you are likely familiar with and another in which the observer decided to intervene. This is the story of the second.

It would be fair to say that the fates had dealt Lena Oxton a cruel hand. Everything she'd ever truly cared for or applied herself to had been killed right before her eyes. The past week had been a microcosm of that truth, including the loveliness of seeing Amelie Lacroix, formerly one of Tracer's closest friends, attempt to kill her (on multiple occasions, now), and _actually_ kill the Omnic leader Tekhartha Mondatta. Then she'd gotten the call from Winston, signifying Overwatch had the green light, before it was explained to her that the organization really didn't have the signal to go, but for the occasional, incredibly secret mission. Not to mention that for now, Overwatch had fewer members than literally any other point in its existence. Still, all this wasn't really much and the London native had kept her hopes up. But now the terrorist group Talon was in prime position to take DoomFist's gauntlet and there was absolutely nothing that she, the first human with time control, could do about it because, in her own words, "This bloody Chronal Accelerator always breaks down at the worst times."

Winston collapsed on the floor across the room. How did he get here? He was a world renowned scientist once, but those days were long ago. There was the facade of the calm, confident leader that the gorilla put up, but since the fall of Overwatch, the fall of all he'd ever believed in, Winston wasn't the same. When the mysterious mercenary Reaper beat him in combat for the second time in a week, he wasn't surprised. He'd barely kept himself in good enough shape to make the routine jumps to and fro in his Gibraltar facility. And now he couldn't even see because his glasses had fallen off during the fall. Terrific.

A set of piercing amethyst eyes literally glowed from the darkness provided by the shade of the surrounding buildings. These eyes were obstructed for a moment and a slight shaking could be noticed by a careful observer, a quiet sigh. He'd really hoped he wouldn't have to intervene, he thought. He could still choose not to, but a Talon victory here could throw the entire timeline out of whack. No, it was easiest that he intervene here. After all, he'd have to show himself to the six in that building eventually, here was as good a spot as any. The dark man popped his back, stretched for a moment, and the glowing eyes disappeared.

"Come on, Winston, get up," Tracer pleaded to the behemoth that was the collapsed gorilla. If Winston heard, it wouldn't have mattered, as blackness enveloped her.

I must be dead, Lena thought. This is what it's like when you're dead? Just blackness? Depressing, she mused. A pair of shockingly purple eyes snapped open in front of her, and they shined so brightly in comparison to the darkness her eyes had just gotten used to that she was momentarily blinded. Tracer was disoriented, as she'd never before experienced so complete a nothingness.

"Hello, Tracer," a voice intoned from seemingly every direction. "Soon you will awaken. When you do, your Chronal Accelerator will be fully functional and Widowmaker, whom you know as Amelie Lacroix, will be making her way to DoomFist's gauntlet. Slow her down for a moment and James will do the rest. Fear not, the timeline will not tolerate a casualty today." And like that, the glowing eyes, the voice, the darkness, they were all gone. For an instant, Tracer wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing. Those thoughts were pushed to the side as she noticed that her accelerator was functional. Whether it happened or not, she had a job to do. A quick scan of the room revealed the boy she'd spoken briefly to sneaking toward the Overwatch artifact that had the power to level cities. The issue was that Lacroix was doing the same.

Lena streaked from cover, firing both pistols. This distracted both Widowmaker and Reaper, allowing the boy, James, to streak to the pedestal and causing Reaper to misstep, crushing Winston's beloved glasses. This did not go unnoticed by the witty Brit, who said, "Now would be the time to apologize," just as Winston lost it. On her other side, Lacroix lay on the ground a good six yards from her previous position. Frankly, it was amazing she'd survived the blow, which had toppled skyscrapers on several occasions. The Talon partners made a hasty escape before the situation got more out of hand. The boy, who said his name was James, ever more evidence that her trance had been real, handed the Gauntlet back to Lena. She snatched it from his hands and threw it back into its display case before smiling to the boy, saying, "The world could always use more heroes." She disappeared into the crowds that had stormed the room after the gunfire had ended. Lena could have sworn that one man in that crowd knew her. He met her eyes, and the gaze felt familiar. Then he smirked and nodded his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for the views, follows, favs, and reviews on the first chapter! Good feedback like that helps me to churn these out better and faster.**

 **Also, upon reading my first chapter I realized that I didn't give any type of update schedule for this. For the foreseeable future, I plan to get roughly two updates out a week; one in the early days (Monday-Wed/Thursday) and one on Friday or the weekend. If I'm out of town for any period of time, my updates might be thrown to hell for a week or two, but I'll try to give you some advance warning of that. Cheers!**

 **~fontsa**

* * *

It would certainly be a stretch to say that Tracer was familiar with this. In the past, a successful mission would be followed by a night of partying, but now Overwatch was banned and, although there was an argument that she'd just saved tens of thousands of lives, she was a known former operative of the international force. As such, her presence on a crime scene would not be tolerated. But damned if Lena Oxton planned to accept a lack of celebration after such a decisive victory. Sure, the champagne has been replaced by some cheap wine, the luxurious surroundings provided by Overwatch's formerly deep pockets became a dingy motel, but she deserved a pat on the back nonetheless, and getting blackout drunk didn't sound too bad. It was in a half-drunken state, gazing absently up at the moldy ceiling that Tracer found time for introspection. Overwatch, the thing she'd grown up idolizing, was effectively dead and she'd never truly taken the time to consider that. She could accept that it didn't, even find mediocre substitutes for it in stopping a petty robbery and traveling the world. She missed the rush of blowing up the plots of crazed lunatics, but it wasn't what created the gaping hole she often felt in her life. Not what had made her heart leap when she saw the incoming call from the ape who'd saved her life. No, she decided, it was the camaraderie she missed. The gentle advice given by Angela, the fatherly advice from Reinhardt, Morrison's strong leadership. Those were the things she truly longed for again.

"Look at me," the young Brit laughed. "Lying here with cheap wine reminiscing on the 'good old days'. I'm 27, for god's sake! This is the behavior of women in at least their forties." And she laughed. A melancholy tone, it was. She took another sip of the alcohol. "And this wine is bloody awful."

The door creaked open. A tall man, although any man could be considered tall next to Tracer, dressed in a beige sport coat and slightly darker pants entered the room. Despite the lateness of the hour, a pair of sunglasses adorned his face. Tracer snapped up, her drunkenness momentarily batted away by adrenalyn. The intruder quietly shut the door and calmly poured himself a glass of water from the sink. For the moment, it seemed as if he'd somehow not noticed the woman dressed like a traffic cone, and she quietly stood up and unholstered a pistol. Her aim trained on him, she snuck toward the man. He downed the glass, poured another, and sat down on an abysmally upholstered armchair facing her. Having certainly been seen, Tracer stopped in her tracks and waited for the man to make his move.

He sipped lightly from his second cup. When it left his lips, he spoke with a slight Scottish accent. "Poor form to celebrate alone, you know." The statement momentarily shocked her, as it showed some insight into what she'd been doing before he'd entered the room.

"And just what would I be celebrating," she asked innocently. He tilted his head and frowned slightly.

"Good question, but one whose answer is sitting on the tip of the tongue," he replied eloquently and with exaggerated motions. He snapped to a pose of one deep in thought. "Well, when I calculate the position of the stars and the reflection of photons off your form, I'm left with only one viable answer…" Comically, he snapped his fingers and a look of understanding dawned on his face. "Why, gee golly willikers, you must be celebrating a job well done at the museum, mustn't you?"

"Oscar-level performance, love," she snapped back, "but if you're here to take me in, you'll find I don't go easy."

"Take you in," he gasped, "I'd never! Turn such a heroic soul as your own in just because you can't stand to see senseless death just because of some law, perish the thought."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

He leaned forward in his seat. "Ah, the million dollar question! Kudos to you, my fellow Briton, getting right to the point. I like that." He adjusted the sunglasses on his face. "You see, we find ourselves in similar situations," he said, serious for the first time. "All either of us want is to help and protect the world and the institutions that do so, but ridiculous pieces of legislation stop us. And today, in the museum, both of us gave those legislations the finger. Now we're on the run from authorities, although I'm likely in a significantly more precarious situation than you. Considering our positions, which are nigh to identical, I suggest a temporary alliance. You give me shelter now, I teach you how to survive without," he gestured at the Chronal Accelerator she wore to survive, "that worthless hunk of metal." 

She was perplexed. This man not only claimed to recognize her from the Overwatch museum, which wasn't unlikely when taking her unusual apparel into account, but suggested that he was there, helping her and Winston. He also made the bold claim of being a former Overwatch member, being limited by the Petras Act, which, while not being explicitly classified, was not something most people were knowledgeable on. "Who are you," Tracer asked.

"Why is it that you people have an insatiable appetite for names," the man asked right back. He thought for a moment. "That's a tough one. I've been called a great many things over the years. I suppose the one that's most significant to me would be the Night Wind. Had we more time, I'd give you the backstory."

"So, Night, or is it Wind?"

"Which'll garner the least suspicion?"

"There was an old movie director who went by night. You could claim to have some relation."

"Night it is!"

"So, Night," she began, gathering her thoughts. "Even if I were to so much as consider your offer, how would I know I could trust you?" He adjusted the glasses to show the glaring purple of his eyes. "Very well. Thanks for the assist back there, love."

"No problem. I got in some deep shit for it, but I think it was worth it."

"About that. What was your callsign?"

"My callsign? Oh, you mean Overwatch," he realized. "I was never a member. In fact, Overwatch never knew I existed," he added with a grin. "I'm proud of that bit. They had a fully fledged dossier on half the planet and a file or two on most of the rest, but not me. That means I did my job."

"And just what was that job, considering you're limited by the Petras Act but we didn't know you existed?"

"I really shouldn't spill the beans on that," he replied cautiously. "Unless you accept my offer, in which case I doubt I'd be able to dodge the question."

"You're strange," Tracer slowly decided, thinking aloud. "You seem awfully open for somebody who's enough of an enigma to avoid us. But you absolutely refuse to talk about what you did."

"Well, if you were in my position, you'd like to keep mum on it as well. The thing is, I've got nothing to hide. You turn me away here, I'm dead one way or the other. Just significantly less painfully if you're still in the dark on my employers," he replied. It was startlingly jovial for someone expecting to die a painful death.

"You tell me what you did and I consider take you under my wing."

"Very well," Night sighed. "The whole thing started seventy years ago."

"Seventy? You mean you're wanting to sell me on the idea that you're seventy?"

"No," he said. "I'm actually closer to my mid-twenties." Seeing Tracer ready to poke another supposed hole in his story, he said, "Hold your questions until the end. I promise it'll all be explained by the time I'm done." Clearing his throat, he began again.

"The whole thing started seventy years ago. Well, seventy-three is more accurate, but whatever. The important thing is that you understand the timeframe was in the second Korean war. Which we botched, badly, by the way, in case you forgot. I was a ground troop in the first push on Pyongyang. My job was defusing the presents the North Koreans left for us when they retreated. One went off on me. Usually that'd be an 'oh well, lost another man today' casualty, but this was apparently an antimatter bomb. That I was standing right on top of. The power of the blast ripped a momentary hole in spacetime, but a moment's all you need when you're talking about holes in spacetime.

"I contracted Chronal Disassociation Syndrome, like you, but with the help of a group of people who fell through the cracks in spacetime in a similar fashion, I learned to control it without an anchor. We'd call your Chronal Accelerator an anchor, by the way, because it holds you in one place in spacetime. The others that had fallen through the cracks had created an organization whose acclaimed goal was to keep time flowing as seamlessly for the rest of the universe from the shadows. I was tasked with keeping order on Earth, but interfering in the museum was apparently not a part of keeping order. Whoops." He grinned maniacally. "What can I say? I'm a fan of Overwatch; I wanted to help out."

"And they plan to kill you for that," Tracer said skeptically.

"Well, now that I've told you they do," he laughed. "Glutton for punishment, Lena dearest."

"How the hell do you know my name?"

"Why wouldn't I? I've watched your whole life, Lena. I sensed that you were special. So I watched and waited. Waited for the perfect moment to approach you, to throw off the scheme these people have had running for millennia."

"So you waited for twenty-seven years to earn yourself a painful death? The numbers don't add up, love."

"Correct," Night shouted, before looking around in a paranoid fashion. Much more quietly, he continued, "Because I need your help. I may have put Earth into armed rebellion. They're going to send overwhelming force to shut down Earth's little rebellion so we fall in line and they can use the entire human race as slave labor to keep some starship running. That's their true purpose, by the way. If I have you, the tides turn slightly. I can train you in Chronal Warfare, which gives us an extra card to play." She seemed unconvinced. He took a breath, composing himself before starting off on a tangent. "Tell me, have you ever considered going back and stopping the Petras Act? You could, you know."

"No, because it'd just be delaying the inevitable. I couldn't go far enough back to solve all the problems Overwatch had. It was never a perfect organization, just the best option humanity had," Tracer responded resignedly.

"You're right. No matter what you did, the Petras Act would've always happened, because they," he jabbed a finger toward the ceiling, "wanted it to. They wanted Overwatch to break up so there would be no obstacles to their takeover. But with you on my side, Overwatch can be remade. We can resist these people, but we have to start now. Are you with me?" This got him somewhere. The reformation of Overwatch was Tracer's wildest dream. However, a bright purple light shone through the window of the motel room. "Those would be the ones sent to kill me. They only sent four this time. If you're with me, we can take them."

He had her, hook, line, and sinker. She could never turn down a good fight. "Let's kick some ass," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for the views, follows, favs, and reviews! Good feedback like that helps me to churn these out better and faster.**

 **Hey guys, updates will most likely be coming on the later end of the update windows I gave in the last chapter. Why? Genius me decided I could do a backflip despite the fact I hadn't done one for almost two years, and I broke a finger. I'll still get updates out, but please understand if they're late. Cheers!**

 **~fontsa**

* * *

Night grinned. "Hoped you'd say that," he said, pulling out a knife. "To the best of my knowledge, they aren't trained in any form of combat. Getting up close and personal should throw them off completely."

"Up close and personal is what I do," Tracer said.

Night opened the door. "Dibs on the big one," he said.

"That's no fun," Tracer whined. He turned around and flashed another grin.

"Bye," he said and blinked away. A moment later, the largest of the four henchmen sent to capture the man flopped to the ground, revealing Night to be standing behind him. He pounced upon the closest and dispatched it quickly. However, he'd lost the element of surprise and the remaining two teleported to cover. Interrupting the purple flashes that signified the excretion of chronons by the two dueling parties was one of blue. Tracer entered the fight, giggling as she did so. God, she loved using her abilities. Even though she wasn't special for having them in this confrontation, manipulating time was still a rush.

Gunfire was not especially rare in the part of town the motel serviced, but this was excessive. The owner glanced through the window of his office to see a firefight involving military-grade weapons in his parking lot. Hurrying away from the window, he made a call to the police. "Damn gangs, stay away from my livelihood."

The source of this fire was largely one time-traveling Brit. She fired liberally into the attacker's cover, holding them in place. When she reloaded, one poked his head over the car he was using as cover to return fire. Unfortunately for it, Lena's gun shot not bullets, which would have elicited a comparatively long reload, but kinetic energy, which required just a single spin of the machine pistol. As a direct result of this, he received a healthy dose of death. Next to her, Night winked and blinked toward the enemy's cover. "Oh no you don't," Tracer laughed, blinking just an instant after he had. When she arrived, the man's knife had already done its work on their unlucky opponent.

"Too slow," Night mocked. "Maybe next time you can get a better piece of the action."

"Maybe," Lena began, "you can let me know when you're planning to charge and we can see who's really faster."

"It'll be me," he responded casually. "The Accelerator holds you to three blinks, whereas I can easily do five." He pulled out a file and began to trim his nails. "One of the many benefits of being unanchored. Your chronons get a hell of a lot stronger, which lets you create pockets of timelessness, which I did back in the museum, and blink or recall over centuries at a time, rather than three or four seconds."

"That much of an increase, huh," she asked, impressed.

"Well, it's finicky," he admitted. "You can hop over years if you want, or seconds, but the intermediates are almost impossible to control. Jumping back or forward a minute takes intense concentration. A day, week, or month? Forget about it. You can channel weak chronons or strong ones, the ones in the middle are busy keeping time running for everyone else."

"Well that doesn't seem so great."

"Not completely impossible, but if you manage to do it, which would be an incredible feat, time as a whole starts to get a little wonky. Objects start to blink around, deja vu, the like."

"Doesn't sound so hot."

"It's not all you can do. Enough practice and you can throw around timestop fields. Tactically advantageous, but very tiring. Also you get purple eyes."

"Oh, now you've got me," she laughed. "All the other things seem trivial now that I know I can have pretty eyes."

"Don't mock me," he responded with mock indignance. "The eyes are a plus." Sirens sounded as a police car turned the corner. "Shit," Night whispered. "Got a lighter?" It was a strange question, given the circumstances, but Lena found that she did. "Cheers." He immediately dumped the lighter fluid onto the four bodies and set it ablaze. Noticing Lena's shocked expression, he explained, "If the polis get a hold of these it would make our jobs a lot harder."

"And what exactly are our jobs," she asked.

"To convince the world that it's far enough down the shitter that they need Overwatch again." He gestured toward the bodies, "And these guys have some tech that would help the police to argue otherwise. I don't like it, but we've got to sacrifice a few advantages to save the world." The car pulled into the lot and two officers got out with guns raised.

"Hands up, both of you," shouted the officer in charge with a country accent. The two complied. "Just what happened here?" There was some mumbling between the two over who would talk, an argument which the man apparently won.

"Lovely night, isn't it, officer…" Night hesitated. "I'm truly sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Brooks," the man growled. "Officer Brooks. Now tell me what the hell happened here. There were gunshots from military weapons. No way in hell you didn't hear 'em."

"Well, you're right, Officer Brooks, my comrade and I did hear those shots," Night began. "But when we got here, there were only these poor bastards." He gestured to the burning corpses. "Just as they are now."

"Likely story. Afraid I'm going to have to take you in for more questioning," the trooper said. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the Chronal Accelerator. "Hold on," he muttered. "You're Tracer, aren't you?"

Lena spoke up. "Hiya."

"Shit, this complicates things a bit." He called back to his partner, who was standing at the car, "Put it out there that Tracer was found at a crime scene. We've got a problem." He picked his gun back up to a ready position. When he turned around, the man was suddenly next to him.

"Afraid I can't let you do that, officer," he said. Tracer had disappeared completely. "We can't just have you blowing our cover already. So we can do this one of two ways. Either you and your partner over there," he gestured toward the other man, prompting the cop to steal a glance behind him. Tracer was standing by the other man, inspecting her nails in a casual fashion. "Get back in your car, delete all the dashcam footage of us, and forget we were ever here, or there'll be six bodies here today."

"God, Night," Lena said. "These guys are just doing their jobs."

"And we're just doing ours," Night responded.

"Are you threatening an officer," Brooks growled.

"How dense are you?"

"And what if I propose a third plan," the cop said menacingly. "That the two of you get in the back of the car, in handcuffs, and are prosecuted to the extent of the law."

Night sighed. "Then we go with plan two, my friend. So, what do you think?"

The officer by the patrol car spoke in a shaky voice, "We don't want no trouble. We'll help you out." The first officer shot him a withering glance.

Night blinked over to the second officer, squeezing his shoulder. "This right here is a smart man. So, are both of you going back in that car, or just one?"

"How did you- you know what, I don't care. I don't get paid enough to deal with goddamn Tracer and a goddamn madman."

Night laughed and said jovially, "Good man! Good man indeed!" Then in an entirely serious tone, "But if you try and play me, you both die very painful deaths." He released the second cop and grabbed Tracer, beginning to turn off the Chronal Accelerator on her chest.

"What are you doing," Tracer whispered through clenched teeth.

In the same fashion, Night responded, "I'm getting us the hell out of here." Then, to the officers, "We'll be off now. Pray you never see me again!" He succeeded in shutting the Chronal Accelerator off and the two disappeared.

Tracer wasn't a fan of time travel. It was like waterskiing in a circle at 400 miles an hour. Not enjoyable in any way, and it felt like you weren't getting anywhere. Although her sense of time was completely shot, it only took around fifteen seconds before she jolted to a stop, signifying that she'd stopped in a period in time and her Accelerator was back on. "How far was that," she asked, disoriented. The one in charge of the trip, Night, didn't sound much better.

"About thirty years, if I was accurate," he forced out. He was clearly exhausted to an unprecedented extent. "Four or five years before the Omnic Crisis really started."

"What the hell was that, back there with the cops? That's not what we should be about! Our job is to protect the innocent, not terrorize the people that do so themselves," Tracer was completely outraged.

"Please not right now," Night groaned. "I can explain later, but right now I'm drained."

"No," Tracer shouted. "No, you don't get away with putting this off! Explain it to me, right now."

On a completely unrelated note, Night asked, "How do my eyes look?"

"What? What the hell is wrong with you? That was some psychopath-level shit you did back there and you're worried about how your eyes look?"

"Damn it, answer me. How do my eyes look?"

Tracer sighed exasperatedly. "They're green. Your eyes are-wait, your eyes are green? What?"

"Great," Night muttered. "Just what I needed right now." He focused on the girl in front of him. "I probably need to get to a hospital. Like, now."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for the views, follows, favs, and reviews! Good feedback like that helps me to churn these out better and faster.**

 **So, any basketball fans reading this fic? If so, what's you think about Durant? I've been in a kind of daze all week from it. For the rest of you who couldn't care less, sorry that this is technically out Friday for the majority of the world. Laptop gave out on me midway through the week and the guy I usually go to for computer problems (They happen a lot, I have a laptop from '07, don't judge.) is out of town. I was able to recover the file, though, so updates shouldn't be this late again. Cheers!**

 **~fontsa**

* * *

Her outrage was put on hold, if only for a moment. "A hospital? What? What's wrong with you?"

"No idea. Need an IV at least," Night responded

"How will they know what's wrong with you," Tracer asked.

"They won't. But they'll pump some meds into me, put me in intensive care. I can recover on my own from there. Really shouldn't talk. Physical exertion makes it worse. Just get me to a hospital." The man who'd brought the both of them through time allowed his eyes to shut. The grievances Tracer had planned to confront him over were filed away, momentarily replaced by worry. He couldn't die from this, could he? If he did, she was stuck thirty years in the past. Would she even live long enough to see her own birth? What if something in her Accelerator broke?

"No," she whispered, slapping herself. "Now is not the time for self-pity. Plenty of time for that later." She picked Night up and held his limp body as she looked around for help. A small town was visible in the distance. Maybe twenty miles away. Tracer took off toward it, blinking when she could. Night's breathing was shallow and erratic, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. The pair made good progress, as Lena was in peak physical form, easily able to solo the distance in around ninety minutes, and Night was at most 160 pounds, although she swore he was feeling lighter by the minute.

It was close to nightfall when she entered the town. She burst into the first shop she saw, gasping for air. "I… need an… ambulance," she choked out. "Man… might be… dying." The shocked shopkeeper quickly dialed 911, never breaking her line of sight to the abnormal duo. It wasn't every day that you saw a woman dressed in neon orange carrying a man easily six inches her senior.

She finished talking to the operator and said to Tracer, "They're on their way, sweetheart." She walked over to Lena, gently laying a hand on her heaving shoulder. "Are you all right? You look like you just ran a marathon."

"I'll live," Lena sputtered in response. But the reality of what she'd just done seemed only to hit her body when the woman remarked upon it, and like anyone who'd just ran twenty miles with over a hundred pounds of baggage, she blacked out on the floor.

Some time later, she came to in a hospital bed. Lena hated hospital beds. She hated blacking out, she hated headaches like the one that was pounding through her right now, she hated everything. This was not a mood most people attributed to the snarky Brit, and for good reason, as it was rarely one she felt or displayed. In times like this though, she was miserable. It had been years since she'd been in one of these moods, and she'd like nothing more than to sleep it off, but of course there was something she had to do; someone she had to check on. Sitting up, she saw the shopkeeper. Great. Oh well, she decided, it's probably better than having to deal with a nurse. "Hey. You," Tracer said rudely. "You see where they took the other one?"

"The man you carried in," the owner asked sweety.

"Yeah, that's the one," Tracer snapped.

"I don't think he'd appreciate me sending you his way right now," she laughed back.

"Real funny, love. Where'd they take him?"

"Down the hall, intensive care. They almost took you there. Why do you need to see him?"

"If he's dead, I need to know. If he's alive, I'm gonna kill him." With that, Lena stormed out of the room. Storming down the hall, a nurse got in her way, trying to stop her. A quick shove solved the problem. Eventually she found Night's room. He was lying awake and when she burst through the door, his head snapped toward her.

"Hey," he said faintly.

"Do you honestly think that this is going to be a casual conversation," Lena snapped back.

He sighed, and responded in the same voice, "A man can hope."

"If you weren't in a damn hospital bed, so help me, I would-"

He cut her off, "You would do what, hmm? I'm weak, sure, but you can't leave here without me. Watch yourself."

"Was that a threat," Lena growled.

"No, it was a reminder," he responded. "Now that that's out of the way, please, continue."

"You'd better be able to get me out of here," she whispered in as menacing a voice as she could channel. "Because if you can't, you'd better hope that God is merciful. Because. I. Won't. Be."

"Patience," he whispered back, "it benefits you none to kill me. In a week or two we can talk."

"We can talk right now. I haven't forgotten about the stunt you pulled back there. What was with that? And why did you take us so far back? Why not, like, a day or two before then?"

"You still existed two days before then. Less dangerous to take you sometime when you're the only one of you."

"And the cops? Would you have killed them?"

"Without hesitation. What we have to do is infinitely more important than two cops."

"Have you no respect for them? They kept us all safe for years!"

"None whatsoever. They kept you safe, not me. But that's a story for a different time. You should probably go." She did. Angry, yet intrigued with the man who hospitalized himself just to get them out of a sticky situation. He'd shown himself to be manipulative and perhaps a bit psychopathic, but he was good in a fight and he seemed to be genuinely open, at least to her. Contemplating this, she entered her designated room once again.

"How'd it go, dear," the shopkeeper asked, throwing Lena out of the contemplative trance she'd fallen into.

"Huh," the dazed woman asked.

"With your friend, in the other room? You just left a few minutes ago, remember?" Concerned, "You all right, dear? You seem out of it."

"No, no," she assured, "I'm fine. I was spaced out, and I never snap out of those quickly."

"Hmm," the elderly woman intoned.

"Really, I'm fine. And I didn't kill him. Yet."

"Good to hear," she chuckled. "I hear cleaning up a murder's a bit grisly. Hate to throw that on someone."

"You've heard right. Not fun for anyone involved. If you can avoid it, do so."

"I see. Well, you should probably get checked out so you can go. I take it you have to wait for your friend before you can go anywhere?"

"Yeah."

"If you don't have a place to stay, I can take care of you. I've had an extra room for a while now, and I ain't rich, but the coffee shop brings in more than enough to take a visitor for a while."

"That's very kind of you, but I couldn't… wait… I have nowhere to go." It was the first time in Lena's life she could honestly say that. This would hit her hard, that she was so utterly helpless as to not even have a place to sleep, she knew, but she'd lie awake over it later. "I guess I can't really turn you down then. Could I be of any help around the shop?"

"I suppose if you really wanted to, I could always use another pair of hands. It can get pretty hectic on a busy mornin'."

Tracer laughed. "I think you'll find I'm well equipped for hectic." She was her normal self again, bouncing on her toes. "How does a girl get out of this place?"

"I'll work out the papers." The shopkeeper hesitated a moment. "If I'm not intrudin', could I ask what that thing on your chest is?"

"You'd never believe me," Lena laughed, "if I just told you. I'll show you once we're out of here."

Several hours later, the duo were out of the hospital and in a truck, driving to the most remote location the elderly driver could find. "Tell me again why we need to go this far out," the old woman said.

"If someone else sees me, maybe records me, very, very bad things will likely happen," Lena responded. "Besides, the open ground is the best place for me to show you." The pickup ground to a halt, kicking up immense amounts of dust. Lena, coughing, opened the door. "Stay right where you are, love! Just watch me. I'll be back in, oh, probably two point oh-eight seconds." Tracer blinked through the door, ten meters away in an instant. Quickly changing direction, she disappeared, coming back into existence on the hood of the pickup. With a giggle, Lena waved at the shocked elderly lady and recalled. Immediately, she reappeared in the seat of the pickup. "Woo," she shouted, "that is a rush I will never get tired of! Well, enjoy the show, love?"

Her hostess was shocked. A moment later, her wits returned to her and she said, "I want a turn."

"Okay, love, hold on tight." Lena unfastened her seatbelt and gripped her arm. The two made the same journey the orange-clad Brit just had.

"I haven't felt that alive in thirty years," the old woman cackled. "Mind if I take the reins for one on my own?"

Tracer's smile faltered. "I'm afraid ya can't, love. It's very complicated, but I assure you that you wouldn't be able to use it, and it'd good as kill me."

"Oh well. Promise me that I can hitch a ride whenever and it won't be an issue."

"Not entirely sure about that. Out here, at night, just the two of us? Sure, that's not an issue, but don't expect a ride around town."

"Why are you so secretive about this? This is amazing! You could save lives!"

"And I will, in the future, but I doubt you'll live to see it."

"You're being purposefully vague here. I want to know the story. The whole thing." Despite Lena literally begging not to, she showed no signs of conceding the point. "Out with it. We aren't heading back until you tell me."

"If I tell you, this is a secret that you'll have to take to your grave. Can you promise me, unconditionally, that you will never share this information with another soul? Unconditionally in the strictest sense of the word." She nodded. "Very well. This is all completely true, so don't interrupt me claiming that something is impossible; it's not." Lena cleared her throat.

"Within the next few years, there will be a war on an unprecedented scale. This will cause the United Nations to form an elite group of soldiers, scientists, and the like. Skipping forward through a bunch of unnecessary information here, by the way. Thirty years from now, I will be born in London. Blah, blah, blah, bunch of childhood stuff, I grow up to be a fighter pilot, best of my generation. I'm contacted by the aforementioned group to run some test flights with a plane designed to be able to launch itself through time. Systems fail, the thing disappears into time itself with me in it. A while later, I come to in my original time, but incredibly sick. The particles that make time run properly don't work right for whatever reason for me now.

"Eventually I find my way back to the group I ran the test flight for and they're really confused about how to fix me for a while because, by and large, they have no idea how I got sick. After a while, a friend of mine figured out how to fix me." She tapped the Accelerator. "This thing right here. Like it or not, I can't take it off; my life depends on it."

"That's a shame, sweetheart."

Lena shrugged. "I make do, and time travel isn't necessarily the worst sickness I could have gotten." She received a pat on the back from the lady. "Let's head on back. Need a good night's sleep to keep the shop running, don't we?"

The other woman laughed. "I suppose so. You remind me so much of my daughter. So full of enthusiasm."

"Why, thank you. I try." A moment later, "You know, I don't know if I've ever gotten your name."

"I'm Martha. And you are?"

"I don't know how much I'm allowed to tell you. For now, though, call me Tracer. I've replied to it for ten years now." The rest of the drive took place in a comfortable silence.

Martha burst into the room early the next morning. "Rise and shine," she shouted. "Business is a' boomin, so we can't be a' sleepin!"

Lena was not a morning person, and something that sounded vaguely like, "Five more minutes," came muffled from under the covers.

"Oh, no, honey, no more sleep," Martha laughed. "Sun is shinin', birds are chirpin', the world's waitin' for you!" Still Lena refused to budge. "Would some coffee persuade you? Perhaps some pancakes or waffles? All homemade, I assure you!"

A head snapped up, albeit one draped in covers. Lena hurried to shove the sheets away from her face. In a sleepy voice, "Did… waffles?"

"Sure," Martha beamed. "I can make you some waffles if that'll getcha out of bed, ya lazy bum."

"Haven't had waffles since… long time," Lena mumbled. "Mum used to make them."

"They might not be as good, but don't tell me," Martha chuckled. "Come on, get up. I'll pour you a cup of coffee and start on those waffles."

"Got any tea? Real tea, I mean, not any of that cold, sweet stuff."

"Afraid not. I can pick some up between the breakfast and lunch rushes, though, if you'd like."

"It'd be much appreciated. Coffee for the time being, then." She ate slowly, savoring the taste of the waffles. "Homemade is so much better, you know? I mean, you can't expect much out of anything boxed compared to the real thing to begin with, but it's just impossible to compare."

"Agreed. You seem awake."

"I'm really not, but I'm a good actress. Functional enough, I suppose."

"Can you change out of the orange getup? It's fine if you can't, but it's just that it doesn't leave a lot to the imagination." Tracer's eyebrows raised, and Martha backpedaled. "Not that that's a problem or anything, because it's not. It's just that… augh." She buried her head in her hands. "Okay, what I'm trying to say here is that some of the guys here can get… a little handsy. And there's not a whole lot a little old woman like me can do about that. So the latex might be a problem."

Lena understood her concern and laughed. "I know thirty ways to sterilize a man faster than you can blink. I'll be fine. If worse comes to worst, I'm packing heat."

"Are you sure? Quite a few of these guys are armed themselves. This is New Mexico, after all. I'd rather not have a shootout in my kitchen."

"Don't worry about it. They won't get a shot off." Throughout the day, that reigned true. Around closing time, however, a man didn't take too kindly to Tracer's persona.

Pulling a six-shot revolver, the man said, "Do you know who I am? My name is James goddamned McCree. And I'm not goin' to take no shit from no goddamned Redcoat about what I can and can't do! Do you understand that?" Lena held her hands up and to her sides, eyeing the boy at James McCree's table, who was presumably the man's son.

"Sir, I'm just trying to say," Lena began.

"I don't give a damn about what you were tryin' to say! I asked if you understood me!"

"Yes. Yes, sir, I understand," she said.

"Good. Now you're goin' to come with me, and I'm goin' to teach you a lesson. And I'll shoot every damn one of you,"he waved his gun wildly around the room, "if any of you try to stop me." Lena no longer had a choice.

"I'm not keen on killing you in front of your son," she said, "but I will if you make me."

The man in the wide-rimmed hat burst into laughter. "You are goin' to kill me, James McCree? I don't think so!" Lena used the momentary distraction of his laughter to disarm him. "Oh, now you're just pissin' me off!" He threw a wild punch, which Lena easily ducked. The gun clattered toward the boy as the two fought.

A small voice called, "Stop it, lady! Or I'll… I'll shoot you! I swear I'll do it!" The boy had the gun aimed to her.

"No, you won't," Lena responded calmly, "because you'll miss. And then I'll kill your daddy, who I've got here on the floor under my boot." Evidently, the boy didn't believe her, and the room rang as the gun went off. Lena had been expecting this, and blinked out of the way of the shot.

"Damn it," the boy cried. "Just leave me alone! Don't kill me or my daddy!" Lena ran to him and wrapped him in a hug. What he didn't know was that his aim was so poor the Brit needn't have blinked. His shot hit his father's head, killing him. But the boy didn't need to know that. "Damn you," he wailed, beating on Tracer's chest. He couldn't have been more than six.

Some time later, after Lena was cleaned up, she headed to the hospital to check on Night. When she entered the room, Night said in a faint voice, "Hey. You look pretty awful. What happened?"

"I killed a man."

"That's rough."

"You don't know the half of it."

Night gestured around. "I don't see why I can't. We've plenty of time, don't we?"

"I really just want to forget about the whole thing," Tracer whispered.

"I can understand that. But memory's not selective very often. Whatever you did, I've done worse, and I promise you, no matter how you go about it, it'll stick in the back of your head. Unless you make peace with it, you'll never live past it. But you already know that, don't you?" Lena left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you all for the views, follows, favs, and reviews! Good feedback like that helps me to churn these out better and faster.**

 **So I finally got everything to go off without a hitch and this one's up on time. I'd like to know if you'd personally prefer longer or shorter chapters and I can go from there. Cheers!**

 **~fontsa**

* * *

Several days passed without incident. Throughout those days, Lena found herself sick to her stomach at the mere thought of what she'd done. So she pushed the memory down, further and further, until she could go a full day without remembering how it felt to cradle an orphaned child. In this time, she refused to check on Night, despite Martha's urging. Eventually, she caved in. "You really should see him," Martha mentioned for the hundredth time. "It'd do you good."

"I've said it before, I'll say it again. I'm not going to visit him. Until he's out, there's no need," Tracer responded. This exact exchange had played out countless times over the past week. On this occasion, however, Martha had had enough.

"What kind of person are you," the old woman spat. "The only person that man knows is you, and you're leaving him to the winds! Maybe I ought to throw you out; give you a taste of your own medicine!" Lena was shocked, she hadn't known that her host had contained such fire in her frail form.

"No," Lena whispered, "it's not like that. I'm better than that. I've got to be."

"Are you? 'Cause I haven't seen it! The best, kindest, most trustin' thing I seen out of you since you came here was the way you held that boy! Hell, it took the death of his papa to get even that outta you! God forbid I ever need your help; you'd leave me right out to the wolves, wouldn't you?!"

"Please," she whispered, "stop. I can't. I can't." Lena placed her head in her hands and began to cry gently. It was not something generally seen from the snarky Brit, truly a once-a-decade event. Martha had hit her right where it hurt, though. "I can't," Lena cried. "I can't take this! It's too much!"

"Calm down, girl. I didn't mean none of it, I was just angry. Still am. Don't take it too personal."

"No, you're right," Lena sobbed. "I'm awful! All I've been is a burden. I've hurt people, I've gotten people killed. Killed! My only job was to protect people, but I'm godawful at that, too! I'm just worthless!"

"Now, you stop right there," Martha said softly. "It's too late to fix the past, so don't kill yourself over it. Take what you've done wrong and learn from it. That mindset's the only way I've gotten through my seventy years." She laid a hand on Lena's shoulder. "Nothing I say can fix you, girl. That's up to you. But don't turn away help where you can find it. That's the biggest mistake you'll ever make."

"I get it. But I'm not strong enough."

"Nobody is. Not on their own. I get that I don't know you. That I can't understand your problems, that you can't even tell them to me, for some reason. So go talk to him. The one you came with. Vent everything. Take the first step to fixing yourself. Go." She went. She didn't know why; she'd told herself for days that the last thing she wanted was to see him, but she went anyway.

"You're back," Night muttered, head in a book. He sounded notably better. "Remarkable, although you've cost some of the boys in Vegas a bit of money."

"You know people in Vegas," Lena asked. Immediately she realized her mistake, but he was quicker.

"You never learn metaphors? In Scotland it was primary school material, but I suppose you Englishmen do things a different way." A minute later, "Are you planning on talking?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Sorry," Lena whispered.

"Don't be sorry to me. I'm not the one you're doing a disservice to here. I assume you're here to get something off your mind?"

"I guess." She shook her head, resting her temples on her index finger and thumb. Sighing, she continued, "I'm not in a very good place right now."

"Hmm. How so?" Again, Lena shook her head. "Good God, girl, spit it out!"

"I'm sorry." Night sighed. "Really, I am." 

"Let's clear something up!" Night cleared his throat. "Number one! There is something wrong with you. Is that wrong?" She didn't protest. "Number two! I am in a position to help you. Is that wrong?" Again she said nothing. "Great, glad we've got that out of the way. So, since you're acting like a little baby instead of a kickass, time-traveling, crime-fighting woman I'm accustomed to, we're going to set some incredibly basic ground rules. One: you are under no circumstances to tell me that you are sorry. Don't want to hear it. Two: you are to tell me any and everything that's on your mind. Omit nothing, and we'll stop when you're done feeling sorry for yourself. Three: you are not to leave here until you feel as good as ever. None of these are too hard for you, are they?"

"No."

"Good. I mean that last one, too. And drop the one-worders."

"Alright." He gestured for her to go on. "So, are you my therapist now?" It was a weak attempt at a joke, but it landed.

Night laughed. "I suppose so. Tell me what's on your mind. Is that what therapists say?"

"I think so. Haven't exactly had much experience or anything."

"So tell me what's on your mind."

"I suppose I just feel worthless. Like I can't do the only thing I've ever wanted. I only ever wanted to help people, but wherever I go I'm doing more damage than I'm worth."

Night closed his book. "And why do you feel that way? Be as specific as you can."

"Lots of reasons. Back when I was first contacted by Overwatch, when I broke a ten billion dollar project as soon as I touched it. In London, when I couldn't save Tekhartha Mondatta. When you brought us back here. Don't lie, that you had to carry me is the only reason you're in bed rest. Then the kid, that was the last straw. Hell, now that I think about it, the only really successful mission I've ever been on was in the museum, and that wasn't exactly me."

"The kid? I'm not familiar with that one."

"It's painful."

"Pain is a part of the recovery process. Remember, omit no detail."

"The last time I was here I told you that I took a man's life. That wasn't entirely accurate. I killed him, but I wasn't the one that pulled the trigger. The two of us ended up going at it pretty well, and his son ended up picking up his gun. He was maybe six. Said he'd shoot me if I didn't leave them alone. I should have." Lena's voice trailed off.

"What happened," Night pressed.

"I told him that if he shot I'd kill his daddy. He did anyway. Hit his own father. My fault."

"Why were the two of you fighting?"

"He got a little handsy. I've been working at a coffee shop for a place to stay since we've been here, but I can't change out of the latex. Guess he thought he liked what he saw."

"So the man threatened you."

"I could have taken it."

"That's not the point, what you could have done. We have to look at this in a way that makes you as right as possible. So this man made you feel threatened, and you used what was in your repertoire to defend yourself. Through an incredible sequence of events, his life was lost at another person's hand. That's just the facts."

"You've got an interesting way of portraying them."

"No, you do. You don't have to blame everything on yourself. Try to take what I did with that event and apply it to things going forward. For now, tell me everything in the past."

"Well, what about the Slipstream? I messed that one up, big time."

"You were given the opportunity of a lifetime at a young age. You were contacted by a group you'd looked up to your entire life to run tests on an experimental device. Neither party was aware of how dangerous this device would turn out to be. You see what I'm doing here? Sanitize the situation. Analyze the facts as best you can in order to make them favorable to you. Not hard once you get going."

"I just don't know if I can do that. It seems wrong, to twist the situation so there was no wrongdoings on my behalf."

"You can do it. I know you can. You're bloody Tracer, for Christ's sake! Anything you put your mind to, you can do just fine."

"Thanks. I think you helped a bit. All I can ask for, I suppose."

"Listen, as long as both of us are still alive, I'm here. You never have to live alone."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Well, stop thinking and start doing. Too many good people have drowned themselves in their own regrets. Don't be one."

Deciding to change the topic entirely, Lena said, "So, how long are you pent up in here?" She looked around the room for the first time in earnest. "Seems a bit drab."

"Yeah, now that you mention it, it does," Night responded. "I haven't really paid much attention to the room itself, been doing a lot of reading. And the doctors say I've got at least another week in here. I think they might just find me gone when I'm feeling back up to par, though."

"You shouldn't," Lena chided. "Very childish thing to do, ignore doctor's orders. Especially when you were in as bad a shape as you were."

"I like to embrace my inner child," Night grinned. "At least he's a lot happier than the adult. And I could run a marathon if they'd let me get out of this bed. The issue is," he leaned forward and continued in a whisper, "my chronons. Or at least, what I assume are my chronons. They feel off, like they've changed somehow. I'm not quite sure what that means just yet."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'd assume so. Even if I can't do the things I was able to before, the incident in Korea made it so that in the next thirty years I'll probably age about a minute in total. Something about quantum shock from the antimatter, I didn't really pay that much attention."

"So you're just immortal? That lot seems a little unfair."

"Not immortal, at least not in the traditional sense. My cells just don't age properly for

whatever reason."

"Is that normal for CDS?"

"No clue. The guys that I met with outside, you know what I mean by outside, right?" She nodded. "Good. The thing is that they weren't incredibly forthcoming. I mean, I assume they have the same thing, seeing as for the sixteen thousand years I worked for them I never heard anything about a power change of any sort. But maybe I wasn't in the group of people who needed to know about that. I've gotten off track, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you seem to do that quite a bit, love. Work on it."

"What can I say, love the sound of my own voice. The answer to your question is a definite maybe. In terms of chronal radiation, every object within a one-mile radius of the Slipstream was affected, whereas my little bomb only noticeably shifted a sphere of about a meter in any direction. So I wouldn't be surprised if you had the same thing, but stronger in an order of magnitudes."

"Magnitudes? I like that. So just how much stronger was the Slipstream than an

antimatter bomb?"

"Hiroshima to a supernova. In other words, so much more that I can't even begin to describe it. I took a crash course in the science of all this back Outside, and it's bloody ridiculous what the Slipstream did."

"Science? I'm a fan. What, don't look at me like that, I'd like to know what exactly happened to me."

"Well, there are three known ways that chronons can be altered. The first being nuclear fusion of the heaviest of elements, the ones we put at 220+ on the periodic table, but this is fairly ineffective and only affects an area of about a nanometer around it. Creates a little pocket of instability that would probably kill you if you were in the same room as it, but fairly worthless for the purposes of creating a CDS individual such as you or I. This was first measured as a way it can happen some four billion years ago, and as far as chronon alteration goes it's commonplace. Well, happens once per year in the entirety of the universe, but common comparatively.

"The second is the easiest, most common way to give someone CDS. Atomic obliteration, meaning matter meets antimatter. Technically, you can create a large enough pocket for someone to be completely engulfed, which you need, by the way, or the aforementioned person dies, with just a kilogram of hydrogen and antihydrogen. Technically as in if someone curled up around it and let irradiated chronons shoot into their body, so it's not happening. You start getting reliable results at anticarbon, which was what I was subjected to. A kilo of carbon and anticarbon gets you an affected area of exactly one meter in diameter, which most people can fit into without too much trouble.

"Finally, there's you. What the Slipstream did was absolutely incredible. We weren't even sure it could be done. The site of the crash sent out a large enough chronal ripple, which are bad and you should avoid them, to freeze time completely for a spheroid with a radius of a light-year, more or less, for three minutes of outside time! Okay, so maybe that doesn't sound too great, but the bloody Big Bang would have only stopped time for seven minutes in the same area! The Big Bang! I have no idea how it worked, and I probably don't want to, but the Slipstream singlehandedly created and destroyed a universe roughly the size of the Milky Way galaxy in those three minutes. And you survived it."

"I'm a badass," Lena said nonchalantly.


End file.
